


My Brown-Eyed Girl

by PacificRimbaud



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Sex Talk, Students, Touching, stupidly in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25658563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacificRimbaud/pseuds/PacificRimbaud
Summary: "Give it up, Granger. We've had our N.E.W.T. results for a week. What can possibly have earned your continued academic devotion in the last four days of term?"Hermione placed a hand in the open pages of a third edition of Narayanan's Elidated Incantations: Shifting Paradigms in Articulated Casting and looked down at Draco.He lay beside her in the field of grass outside the Quidditch pitch, prone and with his eyes closed, baptising himself in the benevolence of a cloudless day in late spring.*Draco and Hermione have a lazy snuggle in the grass behind the Quidditch pitch.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 156
Kudos: 1184
Collections: Best of DMHG





	My Brown-Eyed Girl

"Give it up, Granger. We've had our N.E.W.T. results for a week. What can possibly have earned your continued academic devotion in the last four days of term?"

Hermione placed a hand in the open pages of a third edition of Narayanan's _Elidated Incantations: Shifting Paradigms in Articulated Casting_ and looked down at Draco.

He lay beside her in the field of grass outside the Quidditch pitch, prone and with his eyes closed, baptising himself in the benevolence of a cloudless day in late spring.

"We can't all depend on our inexhaustible fortunes and the good looks we inherited from our mothers, Malfoy. I'm off to my orientation in just ten weeks—"

"Which means you ought to close that benighted book and come down here."

"And nap with you on your patch of warmed earth like an overgrown house cat?"

He nodded. "Precisely."

Hermione considered the pages in front of her, and then the boy beside her, his face tilted to the sun.

She set the book in the grass, and lay down on her side, turning her face towards his.

“Are you going to nuzzle me?” he asked.

“You _are_ a house cat.”

“Which is why you're going to nuzzle me.”

In the easy warmth of the afternoon, under a torpid, pastoral blue sky, Hermione brought her face flush to his and closed her eyes. They had been sitting, and now lay, in opposite directions, so that their features nested together in complementary halves, fit in a way that was both pleasing and incomplete, like a broken teacup reconstituted with chipped pieces.

His breath, humid and slow, moved over the surface of her skin.

“You’re lying the wrong way. I want to put my hands in your skirt, but your body is all the way up there.”

“You always want to put your hands in my skirt,” she said.

“Naturally. You keep all of my favorite things up inside of it.”

She brought her fingertips to his sun-hot skin and stroked the line of his jaw.

A group of third and fourth years were messing about in boats on the near shore of the lake. As their voices carried up from the water and across the grounds, the distance scraped at the edges of their words until they had attenuated into nothing but the shapeless sounds of a happy delirium.

“I received four owls this morning.”

Draco's voice was low and lethargic, a rasping rumble like he'd only half woken from having accidentally fallen asleep in the middle of the day. It was a sound she knew, and if she had been a cat herself she’d have purred.

“Four! You're a man of great importance today.”

“Mm hm. One of them was from Cologne. Aus Koln.”

The hand stroking his face stilled.

For a long while, there was only the subaudible hum of the invisible life of the grass, the shouts of the children at the lake, and the sound of Draco's steady breath.

“Congratulations,” she said at last.

“Thank you. Don’t stop.” He tilted his jaw at her hand, and she resumed petting at him.

“I'll have to decide now, I suppose,” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘decide’? Cologne was the goal."

"Mm."

"Don't be sarcastic."

"I said 'Mm.' That you've interpreted it as sarcasm is extraordinary."

"It was a sarcastic 'Mm' and you know it. And it _was_ the goal. Professor Meier and her ultra-elite Mastery cohort. All doors thrown open wide. Any and all pet projects funded. An eventual John Dee Prize in Potions, et cetera.”

“Please don’t forget: Lucius Malfoy's meticulously planned ambition for his only child. The private tutoring _auf Deutsch._ The Latin, the Greek, the practical demonstrations from visiting Potioneers arranged for a four year-old.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” Her breath shifted the fine white-blond hair sweeping back from his forehead when she sighed. “But you wanted to have back-ups, I suppose?”

“Back ups. Alternatives.”

“Alternatives?”

Draco reached an arm over his head and tucked his fingertip into Hermione's free hand.

“The thing is,” he said, “there’s a girl.”

Hermione's field of vision was filled with the formless pink and orange of her backlit eyelids. “Is there?”

“There is. You may know her. She has big hair. Very large brown eyes. Beautiful knees."

"I can't say that I've met her."

"I think the two of you would argue quite a lot. Anyway, I’ve put many months of effort into things with her.”

She huffed a short laugh through her nostrils.

“Have you?” 

“I have. Do you know that I had to tell her that I loved her before she’d let me take her to bed?”

“How awful for you. Did you make it up?”

“What?”

“That you loved her.”

“Of course I didn’t. I was in love with her—”

“ _Was?_ ”

“Was, and _am._ Ferociously, if you must know. To my bafflement it only increases _._ There's probably an algorithm for it. The point is, that I had to _tell_ her as much.”

“That must have been dreadful. Perhaps she hadn’t gone to bed with anyone else before, and wanted to be sure you weren’t going to be an ass about it.”

“I wasn’t an ass. I was a very thoughtful, very meticulous, very randy gentleman about it.”

“Good for her.”

“It was, as I understand it. And she’s grown rather accustomed to me by now.”  
“Has she?”

“Yes. My lecture notes are much better than hers, and—”

“There is no possible way that your lecture notes are better than hers.”

“They are. What she achieves in comprehensiveness, I more than make up for in concision and efficiency. My notes are what one actually _needs,_ not what one thinks one ought to have.”

“You’re lucky she has anything to do with you at all.”

“That goes without saying.”

Sun-drowsy, stupefied, pleasingly over-warm in her cardigan, Hermione began to drift, and stopped stroking him.

He pushed his jaw against her hand, and she began again.

“We've established the value of my notes,” he continued, “which are unparalleled in their elegance, and whose excellence I will not allow to be brought into question. My looks have clearly afforded me a small net gain. My fortune, however, has likely been a demerit, counterbalanced only by the many orgasms that I supply her with.”

“ _Many_?”

“Mm hm.”

“How do you know she’s not supplying you with false confidence?”

She felt his smile against her skin.

“Because I can feel them.”

“Can you?”

“I can." There was no one around to see them, let alone hear them, but his voice dropped to a whisper. "When I’m inside her.”

She drew his hand over both their heads, and brought it to the buttoned placket of her shirt.

“Put your hand on my breast.”

His fingers ran over the third button from the top of her blouse.

“Under your shirt or over?”

She arched her chest towards his hand. “Under.”

“And also, just before she comes—” he said quietly, pushing the white button back through its buttonhole “—she makes a very soft, very, _very_ small noise, like a—”

“It is _not_ like a—”

“It is _exactly_ like—” he moved down to the fourth button, and began threading it back through its hole “—a little cat, when it’s explaining to you that it wants something. When I point this out to her, it makes her angry, far out of proportion, which I find inexplicably attractive.”

He slipped his hand in the opening where the two buttons were undone, and then underneath the thin cotton fabric of the left cup of her bra.

Hermine moaned her contentment.

“And she’s quite particular about the way that you touch her.” He tipped his chin and mouthed, aimless and desultory, at the ridge of her brow. “Here,” he said, drawing his fingers along the arc of the lower half of her breast, “and elsewhere. She likes to be touched softly, on the one hand. And on the other hand—” He took her nipple between his finger and thumb and pinched down hard “—she likes this.”

Hermione’s legs moved restlessly as she pushed her breast against his hand. 

“So you see,” he said, resuming a hinting, generalized touch, “I’m not sure she’d find another bloke who could do it just right. I’d hate to leave her without.”

“She’d manage.”

“I suppose she would. I asked her to show me once."

"Show you what?"

"How she carries on when she’s by herself.”

“Shh.”

“It was illuminating.”

“The other one now,” she said, twisting her torso.

Draco drew his hand from her left bra cup and pushed it beneath the fabric of the right.

“I had the owl from Gerta Meier in Cologne, and one from the Alchemical Society in Paris. One from my broom manufacturer regarding the warranty coverage on the bristles. Is this nice?”

“It's perfect.”

“Good. And—” he pinched her nipple firmly “—I had a letter from Professor Park.”

Hermione moaned again and gripped his wrist. “What?”

"You've heard of her?"

"Ellen Park, the Potioneer? In San Jose?"

"That's the one."

"Everyone's heard of her."

“I heard a rumor a while back that she’d decided to take on a Potions pupil for the first time. One-on-one. It’s an apprenticeship, really, that will lead to a Mastery.” He opened his hand over her breast again, his palm soft against the hard peak of her nipple. “It’s quite close, I’m told, to the Healer’s College in Palo Alto. She mentioned in our correspondence that her wife teaches there."

Hermione’s heart beat hard in her ribs.

“You never said.”

"Never said what?"

"That you were applying to work with her."

"I still haven't said."

"Did you? Apply?" She tried not to dig her fingers into his wrist.

"Of course I did."

"And?"

"And what?"

" _Draco_."

"She's offered me the apprenticeship."

Hermione's head felt like it was spinning.

"When did you apply?"

“I started the process in February.”

"In February? We’d only just—”

“That’s why I didn’t say." He took her entire breast in a firm, even grip, as though it belonged to him and he wanted to keep it close.

"Will you accept it?" she asked.

Draco said nothing for a while, and only brushed his partially parted lips over her forehead, left to right, several times.

"The thing of it is, that you can't go following a girl unless she wants you to. You need—" he paused and took a deep, contemplative breath "—not just her permission. More than that. You need her enthusiasm. Her desire."

He stopped talking again and gently mouthed the broad patch of skin between her eyes.

"She has to ask you, really," he finished.

Hermione shifted away from him.

"Where are you going?" he asked. "I'm not done being nuzzled."

But she was already back, this time with her mouth to his, speaking against his parted lips, into the heated mixture of their breath.

"Come to California with me," she whispered.

He kissed her, and her mouth moved against his thoughtlessly, familiarly, but hungrily, too, with an effortless, aching, everyday sort of appetite, which, in all of his astonishing, unexpected capacity for devotion, he fulfilled.

"Do you want me to?" he asked, and she thought that they might part—that they _ought_ to part, to discuss logistics and expectations and long range plans and what it would mean to be together a quarter of the way around the world—but instead she pushed her fingers up into his hair, and held him close.

"This girl," she said.

"Mm hm?"

"Do you love her?" she asked.

"Very much."

"Tell me."

She pulled his hair a little, because she wanted him to tell her right then—to tell her everything—without being clever, and because he liked it when she tugged at him while he kissed her. He groaned, and she wished his body was lined up with hers head to head, and toe to toe—that he would move his thigh between her legs, and his hands up under her skirt.

“I love her heart." He drew his hand from her bra and pressed it against her sternum. "And her mind." He kissed her between her eyes. "I love her courage," he said, licking at her bottom lip, "and her compassion."

"What else?" she demanded.

"I love her temper."

"No you don't."

"I love her mouth."

He kissed her.

"I love her breasts."

He pushed beneath the fabric of her bra once more.

"I love her cunt.”

Hermione guided his mouth back to hers.

"Tell me you'll come to bed with me," she said quietly.

He kissed her.

For the briefest of moments, she thought about nothing.

There was the radiant heat of the sun on the side of her face. The soft itch of the leaves of grass beneath her thighs. The scratch of wool at her cardigan cuffs.

"I'll come to bed with you."

"Tell me that you'll follow me," she said.

"I'll follow you anywhere."

"Tell me that you love me."

She heard the flight of swallows perched on the stands of the pitch lift into the air, all at once.

"I love you."

**Author's Note:**

> I post fiction, art, updates and other fun stuff on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/pacific-rimbaud) and art on [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/pacificrimbaud/).


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